Leave Out All the Rest
by Alex E. Andras
Summary: Sam was lying there, half propped up by pillows, pale and thin with butterfly bandages bridging a long cut that ran from the corner of his eye down his cheek, and very much alive. But that was not possible. Sam was dead.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Sam was lying there, half propped up by pillows, pale and thin with butterfly bandages bridging a long cut that ran from the corner of his eye down his cheek, and very much alive. But that was not possible. Sam was dead.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, it's all owned by Eric Kripke and them at CW. Written for pleasure, not profit.

Chapter 1

It was his phone ringing that woke him up, pulling him from tormented sleep to fumble blearily at the table beside his bed until his fingers brushed against the cold, hard plastic of his cell phone and wrapped his hand around it, jerking it close to his face and glaring sleepily at the screen.

It took him a moment to realise the phone in his hand was deathly quiet. That the muffled ringing was a tune that hadn't played in years, and his gut twisted painfully as he suddenly came awake, goosebumps rising as though he'd been plunged into an ice-cold bath.

The phone in his hand slipped from numb fingers, and he launched himself from the bed, fighting the twist of sheets around his legs briefly, ignoring the flash of pain as his hip made hard contact with the corner of the table, and then he was across the room, wrenching open the closet door, pulling open the battered duffel that lay at the bottom, his heart jumping as the tune came louder and clearer as he dug within and pulled out the cell, the screen bright, and the entire thing vibrating in his hand. It was not his imagination. The thing was ringing.

He glanced at the screen, not recognising the number, and then flipped the phone open, putting it to his ear as he moved back across the room, glancing at the clock on the table, though not even registering the time that glowed out into the dark.

"Hello? Is this Dean?" the voice was young, feminine and completely unrecognisable, and he scrubbed a hand across his face.

"Speaking," he said in a voice thick with sleep.

"I'm sorry for the early hour, sir," the girl said, and there was regret in her all-too-chipper tone "Is it possible that you know a Sam?" the ice-cold feeling washed over him again, making his legs weak, and unable to support himself he sat heavily on the edge of the bed, gripping the phone tightly.

"Sir?" the girl's voice was anxious now, and he realised he'd been silent for maybe a minute or so.

"Yes," he croaked, his throat was tight, his hands shaking, and he took several deep breaths before he was able to continue "Yes. He's my brother."

"Sir," the girls voice was calm and perky again, making him feel even more tired. "Your brother was brought in this afternoon. If you could come to South Mercy Hospital…" the rest of her words were drowned out by the roaring in his ears, hospitals meant morgues, and his heart clenched at the thought of Sam lying on one of the cold metal gurneys, pale and still and obviously dead.

"Sir?" the girl's voice broke through his fear "Dean?"

"I'm here," he said slowly, "Which State?"

"Nebraska," the girl said "Norfolk." His gut twisted again, the silence stretching again

"Sir?"

"I'll be there in an hour," he told her, and hung up.


	2. Chapter 2

2

The walk up to the reception was torturous. Every step felt heavier than the last, every step was pulling him closer to seeing Sam. To seeing his brother lying in the morgue. To admitting that he was dead. The walk from the car to the reception was feeling more and more like a one-man funeral procession, so much so that he was shaking once he'd reached the counter, and he buried his hands into his jeans pockets, hid them so that the quivering that had taken hold couldn't be seen.

"How can I help you sir?" the girls voice was cheerful, immediately recognisable as the girl he had spoken on the phone too an hour before, and he felt sick, meeting her eyes, noting that she was pretty, barely into her twenties with a shock of auburn hair and a liberal attack of freckles that made her appear cute and horribly innocent.

"Sam," he managed to choke out "I had a phone call… my brother… Sam."

"Oh yes!" her face brightened further, sickening him, how could she be so happy when Sam was dead? "I'll just phone up and inform them you're here."

"Up?" Dean was confused. Surely morgues were down? He'd been in enough to know that, but the girl merely nodded

"Yes Sir," she confirmed, lifting a phone receiver and smiling at him again "I'm sorry again for the early hour, but none of the other numbers in his phone were working or wouldn't pick up, and he only calmed down when the nurses told him we'd been in contact with you." Her words made him light-headed, and his hands pulled from his pockets and shot out to grab the edge of the desk, to support him as he swayed.

"He's alright?" Dean asked, "He's alive?"

"Very much so," the girl replied, giving him a confused look "The doctors will explain more to you when they see you," she paused now, spoke quickly into the phone, and then set it down with a smile "If you go through the doors on your left, and take the elevator to the fifth floor, Dr. Wilson will meet you there, and take you to see Sam."

X

The elevator ride up to the fifth floor seemed endless, and extremely tense. He wasn't prepared for this. He'd been adjusting himself to the idea of Sam's death. Especially in the car on the way to the hospital. Ever since the phone call the death of his brother had seemed so real and final, he'd been preparing himself for this, getting himself ready to face the still body of his brother, but Sam was alive, and he was grateful, he really was, but he was not prepared. And it was making him more nervous, more tense, and he was staring nervously at the numbers on the elevator, ignorant to the others who got on and off as each stop, just watching the numbers slowly tick by, trying to prepare himself for seeing Sam, trying to picture how injured he was, how different he could look.

After what seemed to be an age the elevator stopped at the fifth floor, and he stepped out, with two others, paused as the doors eased closed behind him. Just stared down the spotless, sterile-white corridor that stretched before him, a sudden, strange fear - a twist of anticipation – growing within his stomach.

"You must be Dean," a voice said from his left, and he turned his head towards it, stared down at the small man in the doctors coat, he was fairly young looking, though his hair was grey and his eyes heavy with bags. He was smiling slightly, though the smile dropped as Dean continued to stare, not making a sound.

"I'm sorry Sir," the doctor said apologetically, hoping to stop the frightening stare, "I-"

"No," Dean cut in quietly, stopping the mans frightened apologetic rambling before it could begin, "I'm Dean. You're Dr. Wilson? You're Sam's doctor?" the smile returned slowly to the man's face, and he nodded.

"Yes," he said, and the smiled grew slightly, "I'm glad that you could get here so quickly, if you'd like to follow me." He started off down the corridor, Dean moving quickly to catch up with him. For such a small guy he moved fast.

"Sam is alright?" he asked as they moved "I mean – he's alright, yeah?"

"Your brother is doing well," Dr Wilson replied in that non-committal way of all doctors who didn't want to make promises or had something to hide about their patients, "Our main concerns when he was brought in were a head wound, some bites to his leg, and some dehydration. He's also got some cuts and bruising, a broken arm and some cracked ribs," he turned his head towards Dean now, eyeing him as they walked "You wouldn't happen to know what he was doing?"

"Sam's old enough to hold his own," Dean replied levelly, his tone suggesting that it was the only answer Dr. Wilson would receive, it was the only answer Dean knew to give anyway, "I'm not my brother's keeper."

"Indeed," the doctor replied, stopping outside of a room. His hand went to the handle, and the apprehension built up within Dean again. "There's a nurses station just down the hall, and a button at your brothers bedside if you need any help." There was a beep from the doctor's coat, and he withdrew a pager from his pocket, raising an eyebrow at the screen. Without a word to Dean, he pulled down on the door handle, allowing the door to open slightly, and then gave Dean a swift smile before he turned, starting to walk back down the corridor.

"Wait!" Dean called after him, and Wilson stopped, turned slightly to look at him "My brother. Where did they find him?"

"The graveyard." The doctor replied, and left Dean standing for a moment, staring after him, before he collected himself, and pushed the door open, stepping cautiously into the room.

He pulled up short as his eyes landed on the bed, for Sam was lying there, half propped up by pillows, pale and thin with butterfly bandages bridging a long cut that ran from the corner of his eye down his cheek, and very much alive. But that was not possible. Sam was dead.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to everyone so far for your support and reviews. Glad you like the story so far. I want to apologise for the slow update between the last chapter and this one, I've been tied up in essays and Japanese presentations, and from the looks of things the laptops about to give up the ghost. I'll stop rambling now and let you get on with the story. There'll be another chapter up Sunday, because I'm home for the weekend and can use the computer there. xD


	3. Chapter 3

3

"Dean," the voice was harsher than he ever remembered, but the single world brought his focus into the room, brought him from his mind, from that haunting image of Sam dead on a gurney to the living version that was staring at him from the hospital bed ten feet in front of him. He was paler than Dean could ever remember, more tired looking, and thinner too, and his chest –bare save for the bandages that bound his ribs – showed this loss of weight, though what was on his brother, that weight that he had kept and was visible even through the bandages, was still the solid muscle it had been the last time he'd seen him.

"Sam," his own voice came out as a croak, his throat suddenly constricting his airways tightening his vocal cords, and Sam looked at him with concern, but didn't move from the bed, and for a minute neither moved, and then Dean was across the room, beside the bed, and hugging his brother tightly around the shoulders, feeling Sam's muscles tense within the circle of his arms.

"Christo," he heard the younger whisper, and a chuckle left his throat, and he pulled away from him, smiling at Sam even though the younger was watching him warily now.

"Hell Sam," he started, blinking heavily "I mean… hell. You're gonna drive me to an early grave man."

"It's not that bad, Dean," Sam replied, a scowl dashing across his features, gone as swiftly as it had come "They'll let me out of here now that you're here I'll bet. You look like shit." Dean made a noise at the back of his throat, and strange, strangled choke, and dropped heavily into the chair at the bedside.

"Jesus Sam, you don't know do you? I mean, you really don't know?" Sam looked at him in confusion, his head tipping slightly

"Dean, you're not making any sense," he said, his voice verging towards panic "What's happened?"

"You… they…" Dean paused, swallowed hard, and brought his head up to look Sam in the eye "Sam It's been _eight _years. You've been missing for _eight _years. The police have listed you dead for six."

A long stretch of silence followed, Sam just staring at Dean. He had grinned at first, though slightly warily, as though not entirely sure, but pretty sure that Dean was merely joking. But when his brother's serious expression didn't change, didn't slip in the slightest, he had stopped smiling, his eyes widening in shock and surprise, and had merely settled for staring at his elder brother. Dean had watched him for a moment, waiting for Sam's reaction, waiting for the minor breakdown or the questions or whatever would come once the shock had died away, but when nothing occurred he had sat on the end of the bed by Sam's feet, swallowing a yawn and stretching his legs, sliding boots across the floor.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam shiver, and turned his head to face his younger brother as Sam blinked, and opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to find the words he wanted to get out.

"Eight years?" he asked, and Dean nodded solemnly "When? I mean.. how? I mean…"

"What do you remember Sam?" Dean asked seriously, shifting around on the bed so that his back was against the frame at the end of the bed and then threw his feet up onto the bed, Sam's arm on that side was up in a sling, so Dean's feet were near to touching his elbow as opposed to crushing his hand and most of his arm as would have been the case if he had sat at Sam's other side. His younger brother scowled briefly at Dean's boots, and then returned his gaze to his brother.

"We were in the graveyard, there was a salt and burn we had to do, text book stuff."

"It got… complicated," Dean responded, "We got a little thrown about, I was tossed into a gravestone after you'd tossed the match. By the time I came around, you were gone. Not even Bobby could work out what'd happened."

A/N: Sorry for the long wait between updates. Got caught up in revision for exams. Will try to get a new chapter up by next Friday.


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